


his metamorphoses

by mespeon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baby Peter, Eventual Smut, IronStrange, M/M, NDKFNS also stephen is a vegan, Peter Parker - Freeform, Slow Burn, Stephen Strange - Freeform, Stony - Freeform, Stucky - Freeform, Tony has PTSD, he is literally a hipster, ill add tags eventually as it progresses, therapist, therapist stephen, tony eats pizza rolls and destroys his life 1 step at a time, tony is a single parent, tony stark - Freeform, u gotta wait bros 😔😔
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 16:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mespeon/pseuds/mespeon
Summary: “He’s good, Tony. He’s good with that kind of thing.”Not great. Not fantastic.Good.That was the sole descriptor Steve Rogers had given Tony, and it was what he was blindly going off of in regards to Dr. Stephen Strange. Tony supposed, all things given, that he was finally seeing someone. And on that...seeing someone. Could he even call it that? The wording was bitterly ironic, quite so nearly made it seem as if he was going on a round of drinks with coworkers and caught a woman’s number, perhaps anything other than his current predicament, which was quite the opposite of what one would expect when Anthony Stark would even go about mentioning seeing someone: a therapist.A story in which Stephen Strange threatens his license with a desire to grow closer towards his client, and in which Tony Stark really isn’t mad about it.





	his metamorphoses

**Author's Note:**

> hi! thanks for stopping by my fic! after you read, be sure to comment and bookmark and all that if you liked it—i’ll set out an update once or twice a week! thank you & let’s all love stephen and tony together ヾ(๑╹◡╹)ﾉ"

_“He’s good, Tony. He’s good with that kind of thing.”_

Not great. Not fantastic. _Good._ That was the sole descriptor Steve Rogers had given Tony, and it was what he was blindly going off of in regards to Dr. Stephen Strange. Tony supposed, all things given, that he was finally seeing someone. And on that...seeing someone. Could he even call it that? The wording was bitterly ironic, quite so nearly made it seem as if he was going on a round of drinks with coworkers and caught a woman’s number, perhaps anything other than his current predicament, which was quite the opposite of what one would expect when Anthony Stark would even go about mentioning seeing someone: a therapist.

At least the office was nice. He had come to reflect that much. These kind of offices usually smelled a little weird, kind of like cat piss and Febreeze or some weird combination like that, smelled like when you breathe in a clean tissue and see all the little dust particles fall off of it and think, damn, if it’s been this fuckin’ long since someone cried in this place, I’m weak as hell.

Or, you know, something like that. Not that he’d know.

The office had a high ceiling, which left Tony to believe it had been previously used for something else. The outside building was almost unmarked and staccato, and the heavy and urban-chic wooden doors that guarded the office held it like a temple: the sign outside reading KAMAR-TAJ OFFICES merely added evidence to his hypothesis. The interior appeared almost like a yoga studio: mossy-colored walls in the shade of ‘yoga mat’ were bordered by white paneling, black metal chairs grouped into the waiting room. He didn’t see much of anyone else in the office, which made it all the more awkward for the time being. Tony worked on his own hours in the shop, so booking an appointment was more so tending to the doctor’s schedule than his own. It had been like that since the past while. Steve and Bucky were sitting Peter for him that afternoon, so he didn’t quite have much to worry about in that endeavor. In other words, Tony’s excuses were but that: excuses.

And on Peter once more. His boy. He was still so goddamn little--still in the chubby toddler phase that most parents never grew tired of seeing. The tot was beginning to take little steps and wobbles around the house, which, as endearing as it was, set an entirely new stack of obstacles into Tony’s life. Baby-proofed...everything? Check. No random knives laying places? Uh..double check. It wasn’t quite what he had expected parenting to be--ideally, Pep would be right there, too--but it was his life all the same.

When he had arrived, a man called Wong--which he only knew the name of due to his name tag--had taken his name and given him a plastic blue clipboard with basic information stapled into a little three-page packet for him to fill out. The pen was one of those clicky types; really, the worst type to give to someone with a habit to deafening silence. Name, height, weight...again, why did a therapist need to know his personal shit? There wasn’t much else to it: Tony Stark, a single father in his early forties. Endgame.

 

Stephen had begun practicing therapy three years after receiving his doctorate. Doctor Strange. It had a sort of ring to it unfound by any other unless your name was Dr. Pepper, which...well, Stephen didn’t find quite as often in the field. He was renowned for his work, his ability to shape and bend and work in idealizing what was and what wasn’t, what existed and what mental ideals had dreamed up, what worlds were feasible and which were too dark to press into. A mere bend in the human psyche, if you will. He had seen clients locally for years, and he didn’t quite notice the flux of appointments until they were back booked for up to four weeks on end. Saying it was daunting was saying that it was weak in his mind; that was even put simply; simple problems had simple solutions, and others would merely take a bit more time of searching. For or the past decade, that was simply how it was.

That was until Wong handed him the newest paperwork. He always got a few gracious moments to spare before the newest accompaniment was admitted into one of his backrooms, a few moments of brief diagnosis and estimation of what could be ticking underneath the exterior. The words on the page were written sloppily, in a script that wasn’t quite Sanskrit but could hardly, hardly pass for cursive. In other words, sensible gibberish. He scanned over it quickly.

 _Experiencing dreams about her. Taking it hard. I guess that’s about it,_ the page read.

That was all? Really? In a ten-line blank, his client had filled twelve sole words that left Stephen narrowing it down to about… thirty options. He supposed it was merely a source of retaliation for trying to find answers in the blanks instead of dipping into the water blind, but...well, he supposed that was that. Stephen flits his eyes to the clock. Five minutes to the hour.

“Call him in,” Stephen called to his receptionist, raising his voice enough so that Wong would hear him from the other room. With that, Stephen retreated into his own fortress: his own little office.

Of course, he wasn’t the sole therapist in the building. Clea was just next door, though she specialized a little differently than he did; they didn’t often share clients. It wasn’t quite as socially involved of a job than others, per se--he didn’t work with anyone in a close relationship that he could consider coworkers having. It didn’t bother him whatsoever; no one messed with his lunch in the refrigerator and no one asked to use his tea maker, not to mention the somewhat awkward conversations about weekends, Mondays and dinner plans that only came with the like. Stephen could decorate his own interior, which was quite beneficial to his work etiquette. A particular sort of ergonomy could be argued for it, and for it, he was quite proud.

Was it too obvious he had quite mostly looted their local IKEA? Tall, almost picturesque bookcases (think even a romanticization of the term ‘personal library’) framed the right side of the room, of which a plush loveseat hugged the wall. His own personal nook fell a few feet across, a Himalayan-esque plush rug held underneath the furniture. Everything seemed to source from somewhere else--photographs of locations (some featuring Stephen, others merely landscape) were littered around the little office, enough to be neat but somewhat inviting all the same. A little kitchen island of sorts was placed neatly on the side of the chair, subtle enough to be unnoticeable yet still available for the occasional cup of tea when it came to it.

Stephen had settled himself nearly onto the chair when the door opened, closed, and the client sat down. He had settled himself, yet hardly prepared for the client that sat down before him, regardless of that completely being in his job description.  
The man before him was stockier than himself, and a few inches shorter, the smooth lines in his eyes and face cut deep with what couldn’t be age at this young. This was the rough of stress and time, the effect of what Stephen would surely find beneath his exterior. He was dressed in a manner that was natural for the middle working class--judging by the smell of his cologne as he walked through the door, he rushed quite hurriedly when dressing that morning. Of course, one couldn’t be quite too sure--he wasn’t a wizard or anything haphazard like that. Stephen’s own dress was hardly anything to look at either, though; he wore a dark-toned cardigan, an ironed button-up with a nondescript design on it underneath. Stephen didn’t quite dress quite to the nines for everyday matters; that wasn’t necessarily his primordial goal, nor should it have been.

“Anthony? A pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Stephen Strange.” The taller man extended his hand, holding the gesture for a moment before it was returned. Natural ticks were a normal response in the situation, and this was no different: Anthony’s foot was tapping quite vigorously, and internally, Stephen mused that it would shake the entire couch if kept in such a way.

“Uh, cool. You don’t have to call me that. Tony’s fine.” Tony didn’t quite know what to expect from such a dialogue--was a therapist open to casual nicknames? This therapist? Fuck, Steve Rogers must’ve had a hell of an experience with this guy to be so open. “And, d’you mind turning on that fan? Sorry, I was just kinda in a rush, and..y’know,” He made a strange little gesture with his hand that he didn’t quite know surfaced so awkwardly until after he did it, cursing inwardly. Stephen merely nodded in response, flicking on the desk fan with a slight stretch towards it.

“I don’t quite think it’s eloquent to begin with introductions. I mean, it’s merely customary at this point in society, but I’ve never quite seen the importance of it in the practice of therapy when immediately after we begin to divulge into the psyche. So, I suppose I should come back to the point sometime or another,” Stephen placed his hands together, eyes falling back onto his client, “why don’t we begin through a common factor? Say… how you found me.”

Tony thought it was striking to watch the man talk. He seemed to be recalling some sort of memory as he spoke, eyes glancing to the right, or perhaps around the room--finally turning to make eye contact with him. Dr. Strange was quite obviously trained in the practice to be talking about this...weird shit, making it seem factual and sound regardless of Tony’s own flight-or-fight response being to bolt and quite possibly never return. Divulging directly into his own life really wasn’t something he quite wanted to get into in as quick of a session as this was supposed to be, either. Hey, there was always luck somewhere.  
“You know Steve Rogers? He’s… uh, a client of yours, I think. Maybe he used to be, I don’t really know a lot about that. He thought you were good for...you know.”

“...stress disorders. I’ve met with him quite a few times.” Stephen filled in the blanks, the client coming to mind. It was a cold, dark standard, but he supposed that years in foreign countries with the only common words you shared with the population were of guns and bombings would do that to a human mind. Steve was doing better as of late if he had been telling the complete truth. That defining factor stroked Stephen’s pride as a doctor in his practice almost too greatly. 

“Regardless, Anthony, factors in Steve’s case are surely different from anyone else’s. A comparison is one of the harshest experiences one can come to see.” So what if that was a little bullshitted? Stephen reached into a side drawer on the small island, tugging out a pen and a sheet of paper in a bound notebook. “You...live alone?”

“I have a son.” Tony divulged almost immediately, only moments after looking to assure that he didn’t look too unkempt at that information. Hell, who knows what this guy could do? What if he thought he was a shitty parent? “He’s...uh, about one and a half. I don’t really do that month-by-month shit.” Tony summed somewhat hastily, not sure whether to elaborate or not. When Stephen only wrote a word or two and then looked up at Tony, he decided to go on, “but he’s not lonely, or...fuck, anything like that. I mean, I work from home most of the time, so I have friends watch him if he’s any trouble. He was only...only about six months old when Pep’s accident happened.”

“...’Pep’?”

“--my wife.”

“...ah,” More brisk writing, quick jots onto the page. Tony didn’t doubt that it probably said some absurd shit already, but he quickly digressed in that thought. Stephen placed his pen between the page, closing the book. “...do you ever feel as if you owe him something? As...well, forgive me for assuming, but as if you owe him the chance of having a somewhat picturesque family?” A bold assumption, though Stephen’s wording was gentle enough, he hoped.

“Damn, stop reading my goddamn mind.” Raw. The feeling of facing the idea of Peter’s present and the reality of it at the same time felt so fucking raw; the rub of asphalt-skinned knees from learning to ride a bike, his first day of school, so many firsts that only he would experience. His comment came out as sarcasm, a brief quip to cover the slight and smooth break in his voice, hidden needlessly in his sense of humor like a minnow in an ocean wave.

“It’s merely in my job description, Anthony.” Stephen only quipped back, and he didn’t reach for his notebook, signaling for Tony to continue with a silent motion.

“It’s...it’s fucking weird, Strange. He’s so little, so goddamn….doofy, you know?” The words came out stupidly and awkwardly, two things that Tony Stark would never, ever, not once in a million years describe himself as. It was placed in the back of his throat, and it began to feel tight as he finished the sentence, constricting and grotesque-feeling to force the emotion out.

“Innocent,” Stephen finished, a better word forming. “He’s your son. You owe him so much, but an explanation isn’t one of those things. It doesn’t have to be,” He parried. 

To Stephen, something about Anthony was quaint. Not in the sense of strangeness, of course; perhaps it was the way the older man carried himself. His shoulders were held back like he was somewhat still clinging onto a sense of pride that could’ve still been there, and though they wouldn’t fall into it today, or even in the next session, the feeling that consumed the man made an appearance. Even that wasn’t uncommon. Hell, even single fathers were plentiful in his line of work, but the way that Anthony spoke was strangely intelligent from his alleged background.  
Yes, that was most definitely it. The context of his speaking, how he modulated his words...even speaking casually, the man had gone to a good school in the least. Stephen resisted the urge to jot the notification down, the unannounced opinion Anthony had about him writing his information down voiced quite loudly in his actions. So, fine. He wouldn’t write anything down.

“Innocent,” Tony agreed, taking a breathy, long sigh. “I… the kid is all I have from her. It’s...shit, it’s like I can’t let him out of my sight without imagining him, him in--”

 _In her place._ It was easy to fill in the blanks once Anthony had suffered through enough, and he held his hand up to signify that he didn’t have to finish. Stephen propelled himself out of his chair, circling the back of it to the small kitchen island. His eyes never left Anthony’s, pulling a drawer out towards him. Tony straightened a little bit to see what was in the drawer, and his brows furrowed tightly in confusion when the small, neatly stacked packets were revealed.

“You gonna read my tea leaves, Strange?” His voice was a bit sniffy from the effect of emotion, and the look he received from the taller man, though incredulous, made him sniffle out a laugh.  
“You would be so lucky,” Strange continued, his tone comforting and yet jarringly sarcastic in unison. It was a calm baritone, the sort that could be interpreted quite anywhere, yet relaxing all the same. “How do you like your tea?”

“I like my tea in the garbage. More of a coffee person myself.” Tony crumpled and balled the tissue he had been shredding in his hands, sourced from his pocket to wipe up anything Peter spilled among their many adventures. The clock was surely lying when it said that they had only been there for twenty-two minutes, wasn’t it? Surely not. Stephen placed two styrofoam cups aside, pulling out two teabags from the drawer. Lemon Honey for himself, and...hm...who could go wrong with English Breakfast for his accompaniment? It seemed to be the black coffee of teas if there was such a thing.

The water warmer began to brew out, and just like that, moments became minutes, which became quarters, which became thirty minutes over the end of Tony’s appointment. It was almost queer how quickly the two grew to find common topics, still divulging into Tony’s own quiet past. Stephen stayed out of his--it wasn’t in the job description to be an oversharer--but it explained much of what Stephen had already figured: Anthony Edward Stark, the son of a rich lawyer, had followed suit into his father’s job. He attended Yale out of state, and there he met Pepper Potts, the mother of his son.

And then the incident occurred. Before the meeting, it had been end of scene one, act one. That had been the end--Pepper’s accident, repression (hell, add a d- to that and you got another symptom with it), along with balancing fatherhood..it was too much. So, perhaps among all things, it was merely the promise of an act two that brought Tony to make a second appointment with Dr. Strange.


End file.
